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Chapter 64: A Day in the Life of an Extra
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 16:07:03 +0000 UTC
Gunfire echoed down the narrow corridor of the warship. A squad of men, rifles blazing, swept forward with reckless aggression.
Henry was the last in line.
Suddenly, like a beast unleashed, a burly man lunged from the shadows. A flick of his wrist—thunk!—a throwing knife took down the point man. Before anyone could react, the assailant surged into the group, moving with brutal precision.
Three strikes. Four bodies dropped.
And then it was Henry’s turn.
A lightning-fast chokehold slammed into his throat like a truck, lifting him off his feet. He flew backward, smacked into the deck, and crumpled like a sack of potatoes.
The attacker barely paused, dragging along a leggy blonde in a bomber jacket—bare-legged, fierce-eyed—and barreled straight down the passage.
“Cut! Alright, reset for the next angle!” the director called through his bullhorn.
Behind the scenes, crew members scrambled to reposition cameras and reframe the shot.
They’d only built a handful of sets aboard the real ship, so every scene had to be shot from multiple angles to create the illusion of complex movement through different compartments. Since they couldn’t just wander freely on a working warship, clever editing would have to sell the illusion.
Henry groaned, picked himself off the floor, and brushed imaginary dust off his uniform.
Another take. Another death.
That was the life of a background actor—especially one playing a generic goon on a Steven Seagal action flick. Henry had already “died” five times this week. And he wasn’t done yet.
Hell, he might not even make the final cut. That was part of the deal when you were just human scenery. He was basically on the same level as a hallway, a wall, or a stack of boxes.
Other extras were part of coordinated stunt teams, with assistants fussing over them—towels, water bottles, costume checks, makeup touch-ups.
Henry? He was flying solo.
The reason for all this chaos? Steven Seagal’s fight scenes.
Every punch, every move, was timed down to the split second. React too early, and the fight looked fake. React too late, and you got actually hit—and Seagal didn’t pull punches.
He wasn’t just the star; he was also a martial arts instructor. One badly timed beat and you were going home with ice packs and a lawsuit waiver.
That’s why even Henry, a freelance extra with no formal stunt training, had been drafted into the “goon squad.” They were burning through bodies faster than they could patch them up.
As long as you weren’t dead or paralyzed, you were going back on camera.
What once felt like a dream job—getting paid to lie around and die dramatically—now felt like glorified hazing. No wonder stunt performers had been complaining about Seagal for years, even taking their grievances to the press.
Henry didn’t mind the physical part. His Kryptonian resilience helped him fake the hits without actually getting injured. But still, he knew his place. Even if he walked away unscathed, he had to make room for others to get their own bruises on camera.
When he wasn’t in the shot, he had to report to the designated holding area on the deck.
They’d roped off a section for cast and crew only—no wandering around. The corridors were too narrow to have idle people loitering in the way of cameras or actors.
On deck, a makeshift lounge area had been set up. Cones, tape, and guardrails marked the crew’s territory. The Navy sailors on duty weren’t allowed in, and the film crew wasn’t allowed out.
That was the official arrangement.
In practice? Not so much.
The crew lounge had snacks, drinks, even a smoking section. For bored sailors with itchy fingers and bottomless appetites, it was a magnetic force they couldn’t resist.
No one stopped them. If the supervising MPs didn’t say anything, the film crew just pretended the rule didn't exist. Actors and sailors chatted like old drinking buddies, trading gossip and snack bars.
Henry made his way to the edge of the deck.
The Missouri was docked securely in port. She hadn’t left the harbor, not even a little.
All those wide-angle shots showing the ship cruising through endless ocean? Movie magic. Post-production would edit in the sea, sky, and grandeur.
Being anchored meant there was no sway, no rolling waves, no risk of seasickness. The ship was as steady as a building.
So yeah, that audition question about "Do you get motion sickness?" had been a total red herring.
The resting area faced the dock, and just a few feet away was the gangway back to solid ground. Most of the gear—props, wardrobes, even temporary makeup booths—were set up on the pier, not the ship itself.
Henry grabbed a coffee, downed it in a single gulp, crushed the paper cup, and dropped it in the bin. Then he strolled to the smoking area, lit up a cigarette, and joined a cluster of grizzled old smokers to shoot the breeze.
He’d stumbled into one of the wildest pieces of Hollywood behind-the-scenes lore—an active-duty battleship being loaned to a movie shoot. And yet his daily life remained unchanged.
No deeper curiosity. No digging for answers. No hunting down the mysterious benefactor who made it all happen.
That old saying rang in his mind:
“When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes back.”
It didn’t just apply to cosmic horror or Lovecraftian nightmares. It applied to everything—and everyone.
Start poking around people like that, and eventually, they’ll start poking back. Henry had no intention of ending up on anyone’s radar.
The person who could pull strings and bring out a real U.S. battleship for a movie?
That wasn’t someone you investigated. That was someone you avoided.
He wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t competition. He was just another nameless extra, a disposable face in the background. No one cared, and that was exactly how he liked it.
He dragged on his cigarette, eyes half-lidded, fingers idly tapping a rhythm on the cold steel railing of the deck.
